Last Christmas,
when she was five years old, our daughter Serena received a cane from
Santa Claus. To be sure, her father and I were a lot more excited about
it than she was that first day, but it wasn't long before Serena discovered
just what it would mean to have a cane in her life.

She realized
immediately that by holding that long object out in front of her, she
could avoid bumping into things with her nose. She also found that she
could get advance warning of steps, curbs, changes in the terrain, and
the like. She no longer had to rely on holding someone's hand to avoid
potential danger. Suddenly she was free!

It took
her about a week and a half to incorporate the new tool into her existing
repertoire of travel skillsand then there was no stopping her.
The sidewalk was hers. Unfamiliar stairwaysno problem. The way
to our neighbors' house was easily learned and Serena strolled over
to deliver a package. At the mall she was free to explore corridors
and enjoy the echoes. Finding elevator doors was a snap; escalators
provided great amusement (for her, not me). We were able to begin teaching
her how to cross our quiet street alone, a skill appropriate to her
age. We began to walk to the park like other families, holding hands
sometimes for the pure pleasure of it and not because we had to.

One day
my husband and I walked over with the children to the local school to
vote. While we were busy signing in, Serena went off exploring. She
followed the strains of an orchestra which was rehearsing in the school
auditorium, a few hallways away. Halfway down the aisle, heading for
the stage, was the new Miss Independence. What possibilities the cane
opened up! I recall how it used to strike me as a little odd to see
in the Braille Monitor picture after picture of people posing
with their canes. Were they showing pride in being blind, I wondered?
Were they trying to prove a point? Eventually I came to understand that
the white cane is both a symbol of independence for blind people and
a basic tool of making independence a reality. Matter-of-factly showing
the cane in a photograph expresses the fundamental normalcy of blind
people's lives.

In this
year's Halloween picture of my children, the Queen of the Prom stands
holding her cane next to brother Superman. It's not a display; it's
not a soapbox issue. To us, a cane in Serena's hand is just the most
natural thing. When our NFB friends gathered for a picnic in our backyard,
Serena at one point was hanging around in the kitchen comparing canes
with the rest of the gang. Just the most natural thing.

When I
look back, I realize that getting the cane was the most significant
event to happen to our family this year. It vastly changed Serena's
level of independence; it changed mine. At Grandma's house, we can simply
direct her to the steps; no longer do I have to hang onto her along
with anything else I might be carrying; she can proceed independently
at her own pace. At the library I can rush ahead with my pile of books,
without worrying about her tripping on the steps or falling into the
fountain. When we arrive at friends' houses, she can navigate the front
walks and stairways herself. Serena goes from our car in the driveway,
along the walk, up the front steps, and into the house alone; I do not
have to walk her. Since we are in and out of the car so many times each
day, this skill was very important to my freedom.

The cane
greatly raised our expectations. It is natural now for Serena to move
along independently. We expect this of her; more importantly, she expects
it of herself. Would Serena have progressed as much if she hadn't had
a cane? I think not. Her curiosity and urge to explore would have been
thwarted; she would not have been able to move about nearly as freely
beyond the four walls of our home. Her development would have been needlessly
hampered.

It is hard
to believe that canes are not given as a matter of course to young blind
children, since the cane is probably the most important external factor
in the development of independence. What does it say about the attitudes
of many professionals towards blind people and independence if they
will not give canes to children? Could it mean that it is satisfactory,
in their eyes, for the blind always to be followers, always to be led?

It is impossible
to understandand chilling to ponderwhy anyone would argue
against normal, natural independence in a child's life. That is what
the cane makes possible. It provides the opportunity for the blind child
to make the normal developmental moves away from his or her parents,
to be just like any other child, expected and encouraged to venture
with increasing independence into the world.

One day
a few weeks ago, Serena's cane got stuck in a crack, and when she pulled
it out it broke. The magnitude of the disaster suddenly struck her.

"Ooooh,"
she whined, "now we're going to have to hold hands."

With
thanks to Joe Cutter, 0 & M instructor, a creative and innovative person
who teaches parents to teach their children and who believes in and
respects other people, sighted and blind.